Rainbow paint drips on a forearm

The wall on Calder Street finally gave way on Tuesday, the whole render peeling back like the lid of a sardine tin, and underneath was the old advertisement for Pyke's Liniment, faded to ghosts. Mr Okafor from the council wants it painted over by Friday. I told him I'd need a day to think, which was a lie, because I had already decided. I wanted to see what the rain would do to the paint.

So I mixed six pots at the back of the shop: red first, then orange, the yellow I bought from the Dutchman's stall, the green, the blue that smells of oranges, and violet last, thick as treacle. I loaded the brush and drew one long slash straight across the split, the way you'd open a letter with a knife. Then I let the colours go. Gravity did the rest. Each one ran down the brick in its own time, gathering at the tip into a fat bead before it let go, and the beads caught the lamplight like something wet and alive.

Mrs Hale from number nine came out in her dressing gown and stood there a long while. She said it looked as though the wall had been bleeding colour all these years and had only now got round to telling us. I said I thought so too.

Gloss sets slow in this weather. Tomorrow I'll see whether the drips hold or whether the council wins and Pyke's comes creeping back through. Either way, I shall have seen it run.

Yours in turpentine, Ada